’ ‘I was called in, ma’am, to catch a French spy—at least, that is what Pottiswick thought. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. Notwithstanding the heat of the season,—which was not, however, found particularly inconvenient in this subterranean region,—a large heaped-up fire blazed ruddily in one corner, and lighted up a circle of as villanous countenances as ever flame shone upon. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand. He loved Ann Veronica, he said; he was so mad to have her that he defeated himself, and did crude and alarming and senseless things. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it.
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